


Strike a Match (Watch it Burn)

by mystery_deer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, M/M, Mind Games, Sherlock kind of is as well, Unresolved Romantic Tension, it's like a tenth of a casefic, no angst about it though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystery_deer/pseuds/mystery_deer
Summary: Sherlock's mother has been kidnapped, he goes to Jim for help.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	Strike a Match (Watch it Burn)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trobadora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/gifts).



Moriarty’s rooms were gaudy in their richness, dripping with a confusing blend of flavor, like biting into candy only to taste blood in the back of your throat. Sherlock hated it, he hated the mask Jim draped over everything close to him. The only way to know Jim was to speak to him and the man spoke in riddles. Sometimes Sherlock thought he understood them and other times he would be left dazed on the floor of his mind palace, rug pulled out from under him. Jim was a magician and the world was his stage.

The man in question was across from him in one of his many sitting rooms, decorated with busts of angels and porcelain lambs. He was smoking and his cigarette smelled of dying flowers, a ripe scent that transported Sherlock back to his childhood. His mother had the same scent to her, a perfume she sprayed on her wrists before leaving her room in the morning. He growled.

“Stop that.” Sherlock snapped.  
Jim raised an eyebrow and rolled his wrist lazily in the air, trailing smoke behind and wafting the smell. He hummed.  
Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Stop...please.”  
“Good boy.” Jim ashed his cigarette on the decorative pillow beside him. It was white with bold blue text declaring ‘Nouveau Riche Is Better Than No Riche At All.’ It was kitschy and dull.

“Now,” Jim continued, smiling as he set the smoking butt in the ornate ashtray sitting on the table between them. “What do you need?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know what I need.”

“I want to hear it.” Jim insisted, pleasure barely held back by his teeth. His dry smile slowly grew into a grin as the two stared at each other. Sherlock’s eyes looked beautiful when he was in a particular kind of distress, an internal wrestling. Jim enjoyed seeing him that way, determining how much he had to give in order to get something worthwhile. Somedays the detective would come only to stare at him from across the table. Whatever room he was led to there was always that: Sherlock, a table, and Jim across from it. Jim’s brown eyes boring into his own like a stone shattering glass. Everything in his demeanor screamed Danger, thin ice! But they both knew Sherlock was all too eager to risk falling through. 

“My mother is missing.” Sherlock finally admitted.  
Jim felt frustration mounting in his chest. Too slow, this was going too slow. “...So? What do you _need?_ ” His voice leveled off into a snarled hiss at the end of his sentence and Sherlock thought he saw something behind his eyes for a moment there. The practiced dull brown shifted to reveal something deep and black for a moment and the detective smirked, knowing he’d scored a point in making the other man angry enough to slip out of his charade. Their charade, he guessed.

Jim relaxed again in an instant, voice going back to its soft and playful tone. Sickeningly sweet. “Remember Sher, three strikes and you’re out.” It was a pale attempt to add to his intimidation factor and the detective ignored it, sliding a file over to his side of the table.

“The person who took her is a well known ‘disappearing artist’ going by the name of Ben Yardsley. His name came up in an unrelated case. He keeps his circle tight-knit, everyone else seems to avoid them for fear of becoming targets themselves.” Jim watched the detective talk, pointedly examining his lips as Sherlock pointedly didn't catch him.  
“When I went to talk to them I didn’t get much. A lot of silence and bluster but afterward one of the men in the circle came to me asking me for help in exchange for telling me about the case I was investigating at the time-”

“What case?” Jim interrupted. Sherlock glared.  
“It’s not important.”  
“I think it is.”  
They locked eyes for a moment and Jim prepared for another battle of wills but Sherlock only let his gaze slide past the other man’s and fix itself to a spot on the wall. Jim attempted to remember what he’d placed there that morning but Sherlock spoke before he could recall.

“It’s a fake.” Ah, the painting then. He could see it without looking, a copy of La jeune fille à l'agneau.  
“I know.” Jim replied, boredom and anticipation coiling in his gut. He hated this slow buildup, whatever ‘reveal’ the detective was building up to had better be good.

“I saw one just like it at the club where Ben Yardsley and his gang meet,” Sherlock continued, mumbling as if talking to himself. “And again a few weeks ago at a construction worker’s home.” He paused as if considering something though they both knew he’d reached a conclusion and was only dolling it out slowly, savoring the connections made. “I say construction worker but my visit revealed to me he was some sort of informant, a middle man. It was disappointing at the time as I’d hoped to be frying a bigger fish but now…” He shifted his gaze back to Jim, allowing a small smile to play on his lips.

“I think that was the first of three strikes. It’s rather rude isn’t it, regifting?” Jim’s anger radiated, it fell over Sherlock in waves.  
Sherlock took pleasure in this every time, watching and waiting before delicately placing an errant fly onto Jim’s web. Jim was magnificent when he was angry and Sherlock again observed as the spider came gracefully crawling towards the disturbance, ready to feed.

“It is.” Jim said, trying to lighten his voice despite himself. “I should have a talk with him.” Sherlock took half a second to consider if he was confirming the man’s rudeness or that his theory was correct before deciding it didn’t matter in the long run, he was getting to him either way.  
“The man who came to me for protection had dried paint on his hands. He was one of Yardsley’s cronies.” Sherlock stood and walked over to the painting, examining it closer. “Nothing else about him indicated that he was a painter by trade or predilection so it struck me as odd.”  
There was a fire roaring in the fireplace, eating away at the wood. It crackled and spat as the conversation carried on like a child in a tantrum trying to get the attention of its parents. Sherlock wondered what else had been fed to the flame. So much of Jim was smoke that it was a surprise sometimes, to get to the fire. But the look the other man was giving him more than reminded him of it. It was exhilarating, seeing how close he could get without being burned.

“The paintings were all done in the same place but not by the same hands. There are differences in how each artist draws the expression. One longing, one stoic, this one seems...afraid.” The girl did indeed seem afraid. As if she were clutching the lamb for comfort, eyes wide with fright as she stared straight at whoever was viewing the painting. 

“I don’t need to hear whatever spiel you have prepared.” Jim interrupted. “‘Fine, Darling. I’ll help you with your little problem.” He held out a long tan envelope of his own towards the detective but pulled it away as Sherlock made a grab for it, reaching up to grasp his wrist instead. “Ah, ah, ah.” Jim tsked, all smiles again. “A tit for a tat, Sherly. Nothing’s ever free you know. I don’t operate out of the kindness of my heart.” He laughed softly, pulling the other man closer. Sherlock kept his gaze steady.

“What do you want?”  
“A kiss.”  
Sherlock hesitated. “A kiss.” He repeated, no question in his voice. Jim didn’t dignify that with a response, grip tightening. “That’s all?”  
“That’s all I ask! An easy choice, hm?”

Sherlock wracked his brain for some sort of angle that was being pursued by the other man. Jim removed one finger from Sherlock’s wrist, holding his pinky in the air.

“Or maybe you don’t want to see your mother alive?” Jim asked, eyebrow raised. “I’ve got things in this,” He held up the envelope. “That’ll turn your hair white, Holmes.” Seconds ticked down from a grandfather clock in the corner. Another finger loosened.

“Show me that it’s worth it.” Sherlock finally demanded.  
“Aww, you don’t trust me? I thought we knew each other better than that.”  
“It’s entirely _because_ I know you that I don’t trust you.”  
The ticking seemed louder in the silence. Somewhere upstairs there was a thud and a long dragging motion, as if whatever was being moved was too heavy for the mover. Sherlock’s eyes focused on the envelope, trying to glean anything from its appearance. It wasn’t thick but that made sense, it would be sloppy to have so much information stored in one place. It would be sloppy, Sherlock thought, to have any information stored the way it was. An envelope? That seemed almost too convenient. 

_He wanted this,_ Sherlock realized. _He wanted me to come to him._ Jim laughed. He only had two fingers around the detective’s wrist now. He thought about breaking it just to see what he’d do, it was so delicate. The entire thing between them was so delicate, the urge to tear it apart was astronomical. It made him breathless at times.  
“Finally figured it out?”  
“Did you make Yardsley do this?” Sherlock asked, bending his wrist, testing the bond.  
“I guess not!” Jim removed another finger, leaving one remaining. One strand between them. “Better think fast.” He intoned, angling his other arm towards the fire. 

Sherlock wracked his brain. Jim wanted him to come, that much was obvious but why? He hadn’t orchestrated the kidnapping. He hadn’t planned that but it was useful for some reason. The reason...the reason...The informant. The paintings. He thought back to the Yardsley’s club, its opulence. There was a lot of money in forgery wasn’t there? Far more than kidnappings and ransoms.

“You wanted him gone.” Jim was still angled towards the fire, the embers threw him into wild orange light. He ran his solitary finger around Sherlock’s wrist, sending shivers up the detective’s spine. He didn’t turn to look at him, expression stony.  
“...And?” Jim snapped. “Do people really _pay_ you for this? Do you charge by sentence fragment?” 

Sherlock continued, ignoring the other man’s outburst. “Ben Yardsley used to be a painter or at least good at copying others’ work. He might have used his skills to impress a select few before realizing he could use them to impress many more. But...demand outweighed supply.” Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured Ben Yardsley again. He’d looked like a bruiser and he’d been investigating him for being one so he’d thrown away any initial hints at artistry as a hobby but he went through it all again. Paint under his nails, the smell of thinner in the air. In the air? The club’s air, not just Yardsley. Some kind of hidden operation.

“No, if he were a good painter he would have been hired as one. He would have shown more signs of it. A failed artist maybe? Good at making fakes, hired to do it occasionally but…” He thought of the men in Yardsley’s gang. They’d all been in on the scheme, obviously. He’d been looking into a disappearance yet all the men connecting to Yardsley, in all different fields, had shown signs of being painters or near paint.  
“He got greedy. Started doing side work you weren’t privy to and dragging others into it. Using your men to cover up his scheme.” That was two strikes. The third was...the third…Sherlock opened his eyes. His mother?

Jim was looking at him now, a grin playing on his lips. He was struggling not to laugh again at Sherlock’s clear surprise. He waited.  
“...He wasn’t supposed to take my mother, it was too big of a risk. Too flashy. That was the last straw.”  
“Very good Sherlock!” Jim’s hand finally withdrew from the other man as he began to clap, setting the envelope in his lap. “I thought for sure this thing was going up in flames!”

Sherlock eyed the envelope, his eyes still glazed over in thought. “There’s no information on Yardsley in the envelope.” He muttered, growing more excited as he sped towards the conclusion. “There’s just an address.”

At that realization he leaned forward and kissed Jim on the side of his mouth, tantalizingly close to his lips. Jim’s eyes widened in surprise at the sudden gesture and Sherlock smirked as he plucked the envelope from the other man’s lap, tearing it open and reading the address typed onto the single white page contained within.  
“You didn’t specify where.” He said as explanation and Jim rolled his eyes.  
“You’re no fun.”  
“Evidently I am or else you wouldn’t do this.”  
“You make it sound so one-sided.” Jim pouted, undulating his voice. He reached up and ran a hand up Sherlock’s neck, cupping his ear and rubbing his pinky under the detective’s eye. He pulled the skin down gently, he was pleased with the redness there. The lack of sleep, the worry. “You got one thing wrong by the way.”

“And what’s that?” Sherlock said in a low, heated tone. On the cusp of anger or lust, it sent something warm up Jim’s back.  
“It wasn’t because it was too big of a risk, or that it was too flashy. I love risk, I _adore_ flash.” He leaned up, whispering the words into Sherlock’s other ear as he folded the flesh of the one between his fingers. “I’m the only one allowed to meddle in your affairs, love.”

Sherlock kept his gaze on Jim until the other man untangled himself and relaxed back onto the couch cushions, grinning like a cat that got the canary. They paused. The fire crackled. A second seemed to drag on for minutes. 

“Better get going,” Jim exclaimed, breaking the silence as he used his foot to point towards the grandfather clock looming over them. “Time’s a-wasting.”

Sherlock left without another glance behind him and Jim could hear him running, could hear him breathlessly telling John the address. He closed his eyes and smiled, it was either a show of trust in Jim or his own abilities that the detective hadn’t asked a single question about the address’ legitimacy. He went to the window and watched as Sherlock’s form burst from the building and went flying down the street. He was gorgeous in pursuit of something and Jim felt his own heart race as if he were the one in flight. He adored this. The detective’s coat blew in the wind like the wings. A butterfly amongst flies, beautiful, twitching, caught in Jim’s invisible web.


End file.
